


Conning Emotions

by JailynnW



Series: Empathic!Foggy [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Angst, Empath!Foggy, Foggy's POV, Friends with Feelings, Hidden Feelings, M/M, Matt's POV, Mutant!Foggy, Part 2, Pining, Powerful mutant, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4961746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JailynnW/pseuds/JailynnW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place after "Feel This"</p><p>Matt and Foggy are entering the world as newly graduated lawyers. Foggy is still dealing with the anti-mutant world and Matt is taking on a new role.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Conning Emotions

@@@~~~@@@ 

“I feel ganged up on,” Foggy grumbles softly as he sinks further into the chair. He knows he is being a baby, but he really didn't want to do this. It isn't fair how quick everyone jumped on the bandwagon against him. “I hope you both are happy.”

Matt smiles passively at him while Candace rolls her eyes, “It's just a hair cut!”

Foggy gasps, “It's not _just_ a hair cut. It's a sign that I'm about to conform to the man.” Matt openly chuckles at that. “I spent years growing my gorgeous hair out to this length and style perfection and now _you two_ are making me cut it.”

“Foggy,” Matt says indulgently, “We start our internship in little over a week. You have to look the part of a professional lawyer. It's kinda important if you want to be taken seriously. Besides we aren't _making_ you cut it all, just some.”

“That doesn't make me feel better.”

“That's because you're a big old baby that needs to suck it up.”

“I'm still older than you,” Foggy glares at her. “And as your older brother, I can and will give you a noogie from hell.” 

She tilts her head, her light brown hair falling over her shoulder as she fakes a yawn. “Idle threats because you know that I can and will use my status as the baby of the family to my advantage if said noogie takes place.”

“Dirty pool,” he breaths as Matt laughs loudly next to him. Foggy grins at the sound in spite of himself, he just really loves Matt's laugh, okay. “Are we sure you aren't the lawyer in the family?”

“Please,” she waves her hand dismissively, “You better hope I never enter that profession. I would wipe the floor with you and your little friend too.” She laughs like the wicked witch of the west that quickly turns into a giggle once Foggy starts tickling her side. “Mercy!” She exclaims.

“Hmm,” Foggy smiles smugly, “You aren't the only one with tricks up their sleeve, Candy-poo. You have much to learn my little padawon.”

“Such a nerd,” Candace rolls her eyes, fixing her clothing.

The bell over the door rings as a new person enters the barber shop. The man is in his late fifties and even being a couple chairs from the door, Foggy can smell the strong scents of strong whiskey, cheap cigarettes and even cheaper cologne. He wobbles a bit walking up to the counter, slapping his weathered hand on the bell to get service. Standing in profile, he can see the man and Foggy's stomach drops a bit. He knows this guy. Has had a run in with him a couple of years ago when he came back from Xavier's school. He didn't look any different than he had seven years ago. Foggy swallows, taking a small peak into the man's mind. So dark and angry. Foggy shudders a little. Candace turns toward him, her concerned eyes on his face. He shakes his head slightly.

The man finally looks up and over toward them. The blood shot gray eyes burn him once he recognizes Foggy. His mouth curls into an ugly expression. Foggy can feel the hate growing with each moment they stare at each other. Disgust, wrath, loathing, dark thoughts that he can't see but can feel crawling into his brain like spiders up a wall. Foggy prepares himself. Braces himself.

“Hank doesn't serve your kind here,” he spits in their direction. Foggy tenses further but doesn't say anything. “Disgusting freak. Hey Hank did you know a damned mutant is here?”

The older guy cutting another man's hair glances up, his expression doesn't change one bit. Foggy knows he doesn't care. Hank Ingrid never has. He has a niece that's a talented pianist, who also happens to have a mutation that allows her to play multiple instruments at once without ever touching them. Foggy has always been jealous of Grace for that ability. He would love to create something beautiful like she does on a daily basis.

Candace bristles next to him; Matt's jaw clenches, his teeth grinding. This is the first time Matt has encountered what Foggy has come to expect from some people in the world. His sister on the other hand has seen more than her fair share of this type of behavior. Her righteous anger builds like a tsunami around him. He places a hand on both of their arms and shakes his head at Candace vaguely again. Her frown deepens to an annoyed pout. 

“We'll leave,” he uses his calm lawyer voice, the one that he reserves for when he is truly and completely irritated. He knows that he is backing down, but there are kids in the barber shop as well and he doesn't want them to associate mutants with ire. That would defeat the whole mission of what he hopes to accomplish in life. Even if it burns him sometimes to let this type of thing go. One day, one day he won't have to. One day this will be seen as the discrimination and harassment it is. “Have a good day.” 

He holds his head up high as he pushes the door open and walks out. He can hear the riled tapping of Matt's cane behind him and he slows down enough for his friend to come to his side. Matt's face is tense, his cheeks are flushed. Foggy doesn't need to be an empath to feel his singular emotion because it's seen, plain as day, in the tightness of his lips and the hard line of his jaw. 

“Relax,” Foggy says, suddenly exhausted from all the feelings pounding against his skull. Foggy wonders briefly if his eyes were starting to change. God he really, really hopes not.

“How can you let that go?” Matt whirls around to face him head on. His knuckles are white from gripping the handle of the cane as if he is choking it. “How can you just...” His mouth snaps shut. He's too frustrated and pissed off to continue. Foggy understands.

“What do you want me to do? Huh? Fight him? Punch him in the nose? You think that will help the situation?”

“You could stand up for yourself to one prick. And yeah punching him would be good. He deserves more than that!”

Foggy sighs, “Matt this is what it's like to be a mutant. It isn't one prick. It's millions. I can't punch them all. That will start a war. And yeah I would love to beat the fuck out of that guy, but there was a kid in there, two in fact, and I would rather them not see mutants as violent, scary people. I want them to see us as _people_.” He leans against the rough bricks of the building behind him, rubbing his temples. His head fucking hurts, his normally strong walls were starting to crumble. “Change isn't going to happen if we use our fists instead of our brains.”

Matt goes silent but the anger hasn't left him. Finally he says, “You shouldn't have to deal with men like that.”

“No,” Foggy agrees, “but you shouldn't have to deal with people giving you the wrong change or using your blindness to their advantage either and it happens, buddy. Shitty people exist. It's the truth.” The weight of his own exhaustion is making it nearly impossible to filter out the emotions of all around him any more. Foggy needs to get away soon or he will have to lock himself in a dark room for days to regain his balance. Damn it's been a long time since he's been this overwhelmed and out of control. A panicky sensation takes over his stomach. He can't lose control. Not here, not now, not in front of Matt – who doesn't know everything yet. “Where's Candace,” he mutters to himself.

“Right here,” she comes up beside him, sheepishly, shaking out her left hand.

“What did you do?”

“Nothing,” she grins in her charming way that usually gets her off the hook or whatever she wants.

Foggy shakes his head, too tired to argue. He will later though, after a hot bath and about a bottle and a half of Tylenol.

@@@~~~@@@ 

Matt stays silent on the ride back to the Nelson's residence. He doesn't want to. He wants to curl his hands into fists and nail the guy in the barber shop for judging Foggy and for showing him exactly why his best friend handed him that change of dorm room request form that first day they met. He has always known that some people are against mutants, it's hard not to know with the news and the things he hears, but he just couldn't imagine anyone being like that with Foggy. How could they? He's _incredible_.

He's kind and sweet and funny and amazing. He laughs at Matt's dumb jokes. He yells at the TV when the umpire calls a strike, “ _that was clearly a ball, what the fuck? Are you _blind_? Oh sorry Matt._ ” He sings off key to horrible pop songs to make _Matt_ laugh when he's feeling particularly broody. He's perfect. He's _special_.

And right now, he's hurting. 

Matt's not an empath. He can't feel things others are, outside his enhanced senses, but when it comes to Foggy it feels like he can. Of course that could be because Foggy is open in ways Matt can't be, can never be. His friend accepts who he is. Embraces being a mutant in a way that has to be difficult when dealing with assholes like the one they just did.

Foggy's body slumps in the cab's backseat, his heart rate uneasy. He doesn't talk, only moans softly when the cab driver takes a turn at a speed that they all know is not safe. Matt twists the cane in his hand around and around, worryingly. Candace fidgets on the other side of the seat. Her knuckles are slightly redder on her left hand than the other one. Matt tries to repress a smile. At least that bastard got a small taste of what he deserves. 

The car slows down, the back tires riding up on the curb before rolling back down onto the road as the driver comes to a complete stop. Foggy angles his body, sluggishly, to get at his wallet. Matt puts a hand on his upper arm to stop him. 

“I got it.”

It's a measure to how miserable Foggy is feeling that he isn't even trying to fight him. Instead barely nodding his head, “I just nodded,” he supplies. His voice is cracking on every word, heavy with pain. 

Matt's jaw clenches as he tracks Candace and Foggy exiting the car and waiting for him on the curb. He quickly fumbles for his wallet, feeling the different folded bills for the correct amount and then climbing out after them. All three of them walk up the stairs of the Nelson's brownstone, Foggy swaying a little with each one they reach. It's with great relief when they finally get to the door and inside. Once again, Matt tracks Foggy worriedly as he grips the railing to go to his room upstairs, mumbling that he's going to go lay down without ever stopping.

Candace comes up to his side, “He'll be okay.”

“He ever been like this before?”

“He has,” her voice shakes, “It's just been a while. He has to get back under control. It will take a bit.”

“Under control,” Matt asks, trying to sound only slightly interested, just enough. His feelings for Foggy still confuse him. He doesn't know what to do with them or even what they mean. Were they just best friends that were a little closer than most or more? Matt didn't have a point of reference. He never had a best friend before. “His powers? What happened?”

Candace hesitates, her weight shifting from one foot to the other, “How much has Foggy told you about what he can do?”

“He's an empath. I know he can heal minor pains, but he said that's really common.” _Not that I believe that, at all, not even a little bit..._. He adds that part to himself. His little bit of research on the mutation has shown that what Foggy can do isn't common at all. Few empaths can do that or anything close to it.

“Yeah,” she huffs fondly, “He does down play that one. He doesn't let many people see that trick and when he does he acts like it's no big deal. Just between you and me, it is a big deal. Matt, Foggy is -”

“Candace,” Anna calls from the kitchen. “Can you come here for a minute?”

Candace sighs deeply, “Coming. Sorry Matt.” She places a hand on his arm, “Just know he'll be alright. It will take some time, but he'll be right as rain once he can get himself balanced again.”

Matt stretches his senses for Foggy's presence in the house. It doesn't take him long. Matt is at the point where he could probably find his friend in a crowd of thousands. Foggy's heart beat is still thready, not quite it's normal rhythm. Matt moves quietly up the stairs toward the sound of his friend. He shouldn't, but he needs to know for himself that Foggy will be okay. The sound of the shower running slows his movements. The smell of soap and Foggy's natural scent mingle in his nose. Matt's pulse jumps. He swallows deeply. He should turn around. Go back down. Stay away from temptation. 

He can't seem to make his body move back down the stairs. 

He listens instead. He indulges himself in this moment. Lets some of his thoughts about his friend that he has pushed down come to the forefront. Lets himself imagine his hands rubbing shampoo into Foggy's long hair as they kiss lazily while the warm water cascades around them. His friend's body relaxing against his, even as the need for more grows.

Matt licks his lips.

Maybe his feelings aren't that confusing after all.

Maybe it's the rest that has him stuck. Like his secrets and, apparently, Foggy's.

Swallowing roughly, he forces his body to turn and walk back downstairs finally. Foggy didn't need him right now. From what Candace said, he needs time and Matt can give him that. 

He enters the kitchen and inhales the intoxicating scents of garlic and tomatoes, homemade sauce simmering, “That smells amazing, Mrs. Nelson.”

“Anna,” she playfully reprimands, slapping his hand away from the fresh strawberries on the counter, “those are for dessert young man.” He grins at her in a way he knows will get him what he wants. She laughs and sighs at the same time, “Fine you can have one.”

He uses his senses to find the perfect one and snatches it from the pile. He leans against the counter, biting into the ripe fruit. It's delicious. Full of flavor. Picked at the perfect time. Heaven. Anna hums a light tune as she works around him. He waits a couple of moments then finally asks, “Is Foggy really going to be alright?”

Her form stops cold in his mind mid chop, her heart skips a beat. “He will be,” her voice is sure. It's not a lie. “I think Foggy needs to explain everything to you though.” She turns to him, “And he will eventually.”

The unspoken part of her comment hangs between them. _When he knows he can trust you completely._

Matt feels annoyed at that.

And that makes him feel like the biggest hypocrite ever.

_Share everything with me Foggy and I'll share a piece of me with you. That sounds fair right?_

It isn't right. It doesn't stop him from feeling a tiny bit betrayed. What is Foggy not telling him?

@@@~~~@@@ 

It's four o'clock in the morning before Foggy emerges from his self imposed exile. He passes a mirror on the way downstairs and wants to shudder at his own reflection. Blood shot eyes, deep creases from the pillow case being shoved over his head, bags under his eyes, pale cheeks. He looks like death. Which actually matches how he feels so he's got that going for him. Sighing he rolls his shoulders back and continues on his way to get something to eat.

The house is blissfully quiet, the only hum in his head is from distant places. Some fluttering emotions created by dreams or nightmares, some insomniacs a couple of streets (or further) down are sending out residual feelings (worry, happiness, nausea, depression, lust, etc). Foggy fights to build a wall thick enough to block out the last remaining tendrils of those feelings. He still doesn't have the strength to filter and understand any of them. It's all a jumbled up mess that he isn't ready to deal with yet. When he starts to feel human again he will, but not now and not anytime soon. 

Foggy rubs a hand over his eyes, yawning deeply. He hasn't been this out of control in years and really one bigot bastard shouldn't have pushed him over the edge. He's dealt with people like him before and left the conversation with a smug smile. Of course, it's never been with Matt. Foggy doesn't know why that would set him off, but he is pretty sure that was the trigger.

Sighing he flips on the light in the modest kitchen. He's a fucking liar. He knows. Has known for months. His traitorous heart has taken him down a road that can only lead to heart break. He's falling in love with his best friend. He's in the slow stages of falling into deep, all consuming love with the man and he knows he doesn't have a chance. And because of that, he builds more and more walls between them. Saving them both from awkward realizations and even more dangerous consequences.

He has taken to actively blocking out any and all of Matt's emotions whenever possible. Yesterday it wasn't possible. Matt had so much rage building, brewing that Foggy couldn't stop all of it from flowing into the cracks of his armor and completely dismantling it in one vicious blow. The shards of those walls seemed to pierce his very skin, making him bleed emotions he couldn't let flow from his body. It made him weak. Matt makes him weak. And that's why he slipped into a black hole he hasn't entered into in years.

It's a scary place. It's one he never wants to revisit. It's too much.

He shuffles across the linoleum floor in his “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle” socks (a joke gift given to him by his sister because _“Hey they're mutants like you!” “Thanks, Candy, but I'm not a turtle or a ninja crime fighter.” “Details.”_ ) and opens the refrigerator, blinking past the sudden brightness of the light to peer into the towers of Tupperware his mom carefully placed on the shelves. He pulls out one with a blue top and slowly opens the lid to sniff the contents. He closes his eyes – chicken Marsala, one of his favorites.

“Are you feeling better?”

Foggy jumps out of his skin at the voice and he doesn't, no matter what Matt claims later, squeal like a little girl in fear. He nearly drops the container as he turns to face his friend. “Jumping fuck monkeys!”

Matt leans casually against the wall, his long, lean body relaxed and rumbled. He looks absolutely delicious. Foggy licks his dry lips, hands tightening on the plastic in them. “I didn't mean to scare you,” the auburn haired man says, blushing.

“I should buy you a bell or something to wear around your neck,” Foggy mutters still trying to settle his racing heart. He moves over to the drawers and pulls open the one that has the forks in it. “I'm doing better.” He grabs a fork then quickly takes another just in case Matt wants some chicken. He places the meal in the microwave for a minute before turning back to his friend. “I didn't expect you to still be here.”

“You thought I would leave,” his hurt expression sends another shard of the wall into Foggy's soul. “I was worried about you. I still am.” Foggy looks away from Matt's honest and open face, “What happened Foggy? Your family won't tell me anything other than you'll be fine.”

“And I am.”

Silence followed by quiet words, “Are you?”

Foggy feels exposed somehow, like he is being systematically picked apart and examined. He shivers, uncomfortable with the thought. He doesn't know what to tell Matt. He can't tell the truth. That's a long and winding road that he doesn't believe either could make it back from. And he can't full press lie because that would be a shitty way to continue a friendship. Plus Foggy hates lies more than just about anything else in the world. It takes too many brain cells to keep coming up with stories and excuses and really who has time for that shit? Finally he sighs, rubbing his hand tiredly down his face again.

“I lost control,” the words are barely a whisper but it feels like he is shouting them. “It takes a lot of energy and will to keep the world at bay, Matty. If I don't control myself, control all the information, I'll go crazy. My brain gets,” he waves his hands in front of him trying to find the words, he settles on, “too full and I just...”

“Get lost in the noise,” Matt supplies sounding like he understands that perfectly.

“Yeah,” Foggy nods, “I just nodded.”

The left side of Matt's mouth quirks up, “Thanks for telling me.”

Foggy lets a smile start to form. “I don't get like that much, but when all the barriers I've built start to break, it can be too much.”

“But you're okay now right,” he pushes off the wall and comes to stand in front of him like he could somehow sense if Foggy isn't completely fine.

Deciding not to lie, he replies, “I will be. I'm on the road to okay now, but it will take some time to get to my fully healthy destination.” Matt nods. “So,” Foggy turns to the microwave to pull out the chicken. “Want some food?”

Matt grins, “I could eat.”

Foggy hands him a fork and they dive into the leftovers. All worry and questions swept under the rug. Foggy has no doubt they will rear their ugly heads again eventually though.

@@@~~~@@@ 

Landman and Zack is a mistake. It doesn't take him long to realize that, but it takes him nearly two years to fully admit it to himself. Matt grinds his teeth together everyday they enter the doors to the deceptively clean offices. The true grime is hidden in loopholes in the law and dirty deals sealed with handshakes and trips to the golf course. He pulls at his tie, his fingers going over another deposition. Another poor individual being railroaded by a big time corporation that has enough money to pay for the medical bills and all other expenses, but won't because why take responsibility when you can have a team of lawyers make you look like the picked on victim?

Matt removes his fingers from the page, disgusted with himself, with this internship, with his willing involvement. He shouldn't be on this side of the case. He should be _helping_ the little guy. That's why he became a lawyer. He paces the inside of his new apartment like a caged animal. He should be fighting for this man, not trying to help the sleazy jackasses that had enough money to employ both partners at the law firm. 

He clenches his hands into fists, trying to slow his breathing. He needs to calm down. Matt stands very still and lets his mind blank. It's in the quiet he hears it. Young, weak, scared, tears and screams long since quieted by a man she should be able to trust. The blood in his veins heats, the devil under his skin climbs up his spine and whispers in his ear, _“Teach him a lesson. Matt do what you want to. Give in.”_ He shakes his head as if he can shake the demon from his body. 

No. He can't. He can't give in. He won't fall into that. He will not disappoint his father. Matt picks up the phone and dials the police. The message he gives to the dispatcher is brief, “A man is molesting his young daughter.” He gives the address to the lady on the other end of the phone line and then hangs up. 

The next day, Matt enters the office with a small amount of hope. He did something to help without giving in. He can survive this cesspool of a law firm and use his position to make a difference. He can. He will. He has to. 

That small amount of hope shatters. The man suing his former employer for med ical damages he rightfully deserves is going to lose. He found the right loophole that afternoon. Foggy's hand tightens on the table beside him, but other than that doesn't do anything other than say in a falsely enthusiastic voice, “You did it Matty.”

They take their findings to their bosses. Matt can feel the greedful glee in the air and he wants to run from it. He wants to shower for days to get the smell off his skin. He wants to find the nearest bathroom and relieve his stomach of the bagel he choked down earlier at Foggy's insistence. Instead he curls his arm around Foggy's and returns to their storage closet of an office.

“You did good Matty,” Foggy says softly to him as they walk the now familiar hallways. He can hear the lie for what it is even without his ability to hear heartbeats. Foggy is trying to make the situation okay, but it isn't. They both know that. “It's the law, right? He broke the law.”

“So did they,” Matt grits out.

“Yeah,” Foggy admits, slightly worn out, “but they are our client. Mr. Mathis isn't.”

“Does that make it better?”

Foggy doesn't answer that. Because they both know the answer. 

No. 

No it doesn't.

That night Matt's small hold on sanity snaps. The little girl is crying harder. The father is snarling at her for making up lies and calling the police. The mother sits quietly in the master bedroom. She doesn't do anything. She lied to the cops to protect her husband. The little girl screams then stops at a slap.

Matt's stomach knots up. His fists curl. The devil jumps up, ready to fight. Itching to be unleashed. Matt licks his lips. He isn't sure this time he is going to stop the demon from getting it's way. This time, he just might have to give in. He goes to bed thinking. He wakes up the same way.

Foggy knows he's reaching his limit as the weeks wear on. “I know it sucks, Matt, but just hold on.” He grips Matt's shoulder and some of the tension melts away. That's cheating, but he lets Foggy do it because it helps. “We'll make it.”

“Yeah.”

They win the case, even manage to turn the tables on the sick man across from them. Matt listens to his heartbeat as the partners joyfully tell them that he broke his contract with Roxxon Oil and they are perusing legal action against _him_. The steady rate of his pulse and smell of illness clinging to him is the final straw. 

He will not do this anymore.

He just can't.

Foggy comes into their offices, “We did it buddy.” Matt raises his head from the well worn book he has been reading. “Word is we are going to be offered permanent positions!” Matt can barely keep down the contents of his stomach. He sighs, “You are projecting again. You aren't even trying to stop it. You hate this place.” He sits heavily on the chair across from him. “You want to leave?”

“So do you,” Matt replies confidently. “You hate what these people stand for too. You feel everything they do. You know what kind of people we work for.”

“I do,” he doesn't bother denying it. “But we can change things from the inside Matt!”

“What after five years when we might be in a position to actually do some good?”

“They do good,” his friend remarks sullenly, “they do pro bono work.”

“Foggy...” His friend gets up and walks behind him toward the door. Matt swallows his panic. Foggy wouldn't leave him, right? “Foggy what are you doing?”

He hears a box being pulled from the shelf and papers falling to the desk. “I'm emptying this box and then I'm going to fill it up with as many bagels as I can before Christine can stop me, because with you as my partner who knows when I'll eat a proper meal again.”

Matt's heart flips in his chest. This is why he loves Foggy. This is why he needs him. This is why he will never know about the devil licking his lips under his skin. “We'll get by.”

“Lies,” Foggy says fondly, “but I'll try to believe them.” He smiles, Matt knows he does because he can hear it in his voice, “Well come on then, let's go save the world.”

Matt extends his arm, making a fist that Foggy bumps. He feels lighter than he has in years. And it only gets better that night when the devil does what it's longed to do. The man will _not_ be touching his daughter again. 

Blood drops from his hand, collecting on the ground. Matt licks his lips. This is what he is meant to do.

@@@~~~@@@ 

Nelson and Murdock. It is happening. And he is about to shit his pants. Foggy sits at the bar – a place they quickly come to love because no one gives a rat's ass that Foggy is a mutant or that Matt is blind - with Matt, drawing up a sign that would one day (hopefully) grace the front entrance to their very own law firm. He looks over at his friend. Bruises are blooming around his cheek bone and eye, Foggy swallows the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“You fell taking out the trash,” he forces a laugh. Matt has never been clumsy. He moves with a grace Foggy envies and wishes he could. Plus Matt is tense. Foggy feels the lingering sensations in his bones. He pushes all his misgivings aside. He's drunk – or at least tipsy – and he has spent so much time blocking out Matt's feelings, he's probably wrong. “You need to be more careful buddy.”

Only he doesn't think he is wrong.

Matt laughs, it sounds easy and real. Foggy rolls with it. “Here,” he hands Matt the finished napkin. “Rub your fingers on this.”

“A napkin?”

“No,” he says fondly exasperated. “It's not a napkin, it's our future!”

“Really, cause it feels like a napkin.”

“Stop being a dumbass. It's a picture of a sign. Nelson and Murdock. That will be hanging on our offices one day.”

Matt stops, his lips curve in a small, unsure smile, “You sure about this?”

“No,” Foggy exclaims, finally feeling a little less worried about Matt. “I'm freaking out but I trust you.”

Matt's smile firms up. “This is a huge step. If you want to back out, I'll understand.”

Foggy hovers between wanting to slap him and wanting to kiss him. He slaps his hand on Matt's shoulder instead, squeezing slightly. “We're in this together. You and me, Nelson and Murdock, till the end.”

“You make it sound like we're getting married.”

“This is so much more than _just_ a civil union! This is shared bills, crushing debt, and a possible apartment because we might not be able to afford separate places. By the way I'm putting in now that we keep yours and not my shit box,” He pauses, “Maybe we should just get married and forget about this.”

Matt laughs, bright and this time completely real. “I'm serious. Foggy I don't want you to feel like you have to do this.”

“Matty,” he sighs. “I don't feel like I have to. Stop feeling guilty. It's giving me a headache.” He softens the words with another squeeze on his friends shoulder. “You were right about leaving Landman and Zack and you're right about this. Our own law firm where we can help those that actually need it. That's what I always wanted to do. You know that.”

“Okay,” Matt says, sounding and feeling at peace.

“Alright,” Foggy lifts his glass. “Lift your glass because I'm going clink the hell out of it.”

Matt laughs once more as the glasses come together and the amber liquor inside spills on the bar. They finish their drinks and head in opposite directions. Foggy watches as Matt flags down a cab, waiting until he is safely inside before continuing on his way. He moves slowly through the streets, not taking the seedier alleys that would make his trip shorter but also not sticking strictly to the main roads. He lets the night wash over him, dropping a wall or two, letting more emotions in then normal.

The humming of different people in his head cracks and shifts, like a radio trying to pick up a station. This is what he hears when he is only partially aware of his surrounds, but sometimes it's the best way to “tune” into the ones that need to be addressed. And that's why he knows something is wrong when he gets closer to his block. He stops dead in his tracks, reaching out. A young woman is scared. More than scared, she terrified. Her fear rushes over him in an instant. He looks around him, into an alley he knows is bad news. He debates with himself for only a moment before following the thick emotion into that alley. 

On the ground is a broken piece of a table leg by one of the smellier dumpsters. He reaches down and snatches it quickly. It doesn't take him long to find the girl – and he does mean _girl_ \- because she couldn't be older than 17. Her hair is down in matted strands. Dark eyes are widen and frightened. Her skin is thin from lack of nutrition. She whimpers and tries to move away from the three guys over her.

She's a mutant, he realizes. He can sense the differences in her. Foggy straightens his spine and slams the wood down on the dumpster next to him. “Hey,” he yells. “Leave her alone.”

The three guys – fuck they aren't even adults, teens, young like her – turn toward him. Hate rolls over the ground between them knocking Foggy in the gut. Underneath that hate, though, is confusion and fear. A deadly combination for mutants and humans alike.

A tall boy with a slender form and a shaved head yells back, “What's you gonna do to make us, fatty?”

Foggy makes his way toward them swallowing his fear and inhaling all the anger and hate they are broadcasting to him. The young girl tries to run but can't when a slightly shorter, more rounded boy slams her back into the wall and raises his fist. She cowers and Foggy reacts. He rushes forward and swings the wood like a Louisville slugger at the boy's back. He grunts, loosening his grip on the girl, who smartly uses the opportunity to get away. This leaves Foggy with three very pissed off mutant haters. 

The fists come fast and Foggy doesn't have a lot of experience with fighting so he gets hit more than he hits. Punches to his stomach and sides cause him to ball in on himself. The control he tries so hard to maintain slips, he feels more and more of other people's emotions and less of his own. It emboldens him. Strengthens his spirit, feeds his power. He raises up and connects one solid punch to the tall one's nose, listening as it cracks under his fist. The other two stop and that's all he needs to throw a couple more punches at them then he staggers back, shaking his bruised and bloody hand. The sight of their blood on his skin sickens him. Foggy really hates violence and knows there is only one way to stop it completely tonight. He drops another wall in his mind, opening up an ability he hasn't in a long while. 

Foggy absorbs all the hate around him, gathering it up like a ball of sand. Forming it, separating it into three parts and turning it around. He closes his eyes, concentrating on doing this right. The boys shake as he opens them, he knows his eyes have shifted. They had to have, Foggy isn't repressing all his powers anymore. The aura of feelings are only visible to him, and other empaths if there are any around, and he tracks it carefully, ensuring his aim is true. It is. He makes sure it is.

Their eyes glaze over, their mouths turn slack and each of them slump into each other. Foggy walks closer, holding his side and limping slightly. Once he's close enough he whispers, “You don't hate mutants. When you see one from now on, you will treat them with kindness.” 

Every word he says is colored with persuasion. He feels even sick doing this. Hates himself for being able to do it. The boys are zombie like, nodding their heads in a way that reminds him of bobble head dolls. “Now go home and forget everything that happened tonight.”

Foggy sags against the nearest wall once they've left. He wants to cry. This is one power he hates, he wishes he didn't have. And the sad part is that isn't even the most he can do with it. He still watered it down to the barest of components to accomplish what he needed. He rubs his forehead roughly. Cursing himself viciously.

“What did you do to them?”

Being as open as he is, Foggy can't say he didn't know the girl was still in the alleyway with him. He couldn't say much of anything except he is so fucking tired and _sore_. He cracks open one eye to look at her, “I manipulated their feelings. Brainwashed them basically.”

“Will they stay like that,” she inches closer, her arms wrapping around her middle to protect herself from something. What it was, he didn't know.

He vaguely shrugs, “I honestly don't know. I try not to manipulate anyone if I can help it.” He forces himself to stand straight. It takes more effort than he cares to admit. “Are you okay?” She nods. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

The young girl looks away from him. “I got kicked out of the shelter for not telling them I'm a mutant.”

His heart clenches. “Family?” Her head drops lower. The decision he makes next is easy. “You can stay with me.”

“Really?”

“At least until we can find you some place,” he moves further from the wall. “In fact I might know of a place now.” Foggy smiles at her, “What's your name?”

“Ember.” At his look, she narrows her eyes. “What?”

“What's your real name?”

“What's yours?”

“Foggy,” he informs her.

Her lips curl up, “Your real name?”

He smiles at her, “Franklin. I prefer Foggy.”

“Linda,” she says with a genuine smile of her own. “I prefer Ember.”

“Touche,” walking more toward the opening of the alley, he waves to her to follow him. Which she does to his surprise. Once they enter his apartment several minutes (and two blocks of silence) later, he orders two large pizzas from his favorite local pizzeria. “I ordered a pepperoni and a kitchen sink.”

Her eyebrow arches, “A kitchen sink?”

“Yeah,” he grins, dreaming of that warm gooey goodness. “It's a pizza with just about everything but the kitchen sink on it. It's fantastic.” 

Ember nods, looking around his modest apartment, “Why are you being nice to me? You don't know me. I could be planning to rob you and steal all your money.”

Foggy laughs, “Well if you find any then you deserve it. In fact I'll help. It will be like an adventure.” He bends wrong bringing his injuries back into focus. “Although, on second thought, I might just supervise.” 

Ember goes still, “Why did you help me? Using your abilities to save me could have...”

He holds up his hand to stop her words and her, admittedly sweet, worry from bubbling up too quickly, “I saved you because that's what decent people do. I'm not special. You were outnumbered and scared. As for my abilities, yeah that could have bit me in the ass. Especially since I'm a lawyer and currently unemployed.”

“Thanks for helping,” she says softly, almost shyly. “You didn't have to.”

He felt her shyness butt up against a new emotion, defiance- one universal to all teens no matter if they are mutants or not. “I would have eventually gotten out of the situation on my own.”

Having had years of experience with teenage girls – thanks to Candace and her friends – he knows to tread lightly. “I don't doubt you would have. But it's nice to have help sometimes.”

All conversation stops once the pizza arrives. Ember eats almost a whole one on her own, which he anticipated and is actually the reason he ordered two to begin with. Her eyes never quite leave his for long, her body never relaxing completely. She reminds him of a bunny ready to hop away. Foggy continues to eat, acts like a nonthreatening as possible. The dam is going to break soon, he can tell. The shock of earlier is wearing off and her hunger has been sated. He rubs a white paper napkin across his lips to remove the sauce and grease from his lips.

Finally she huffs, “Why are you being nice? People aren't like that. I know.”

“Actually a lot of people are,” Foggy responds gently, “I know a whole school of them. You just haven't met the right people yet. I know you would love the school I'm talking about. It's for mutants and Professor X would do everything in his power to help you.”

The thing about being an empath that frustrates Foggy the most is knowing how a person is feeling even while said person is fighting it. He knows Ember wants to believe him, wants to feel safe, but she won't let herself. Instead she grasps onto the easiest emotion there is to deflect hope, anger. His old friend. 

“You don't know me,” she stands quickly. “I don't need you or your help.”

“Okay,” Foggy nods.

“Wait...what?”

“I'm not going to force help on you,” Foggy stands and walks over to the kitchen area, placing his plate in the sink. “You don't want it, that's fine.”

Ember pauses, her hands rubbing over and over each other, “Good.”

“Uh huh.”

“I'll just leave then,” she starts toward the door, her movement jerky.

“Okay, well have a nice night,” he grabs the pizza boxes and starts combining the portions into a single box. “Thanks for having dinner with me.”

She hesitates another second then walks closer to the door. He counts in his head, hoping that he hasn't over calculated. She makes it all the way, her hand on the knob and stops again.

“Where is this place?”

Foggy fights to keep the smile off his face, “Right here in the good ol' state of New York.”

“And,” she twists her hair around her finger, her eyes bouncing everywhere to avoid his, “and they'll really help me?”

“Yeah,” he finally smiles at her. “Yeah they will.”

@@@~~~@@@ 

Matt walks into the church, inhales the scents – burning candles, faint incense, sweaty skin, rich wood oil, familiarity. He bows his head, closing his eyes as he forms a cross over his body. Taking a moment, just one, he breaths in the memories that are faded and cracked around the edges of his grandmother holding his hand while they walked to their pew and began to pray. Her soft words, old as the day is long, mixing with his own young ones. He recalls the way she would grip her rosary beads, rubbing over the worn crystals as the priest stood before them and guided the congregation through the mass.

He sighs. Those were easier times. All he had to do back then was be polite, brush his teeth and always say his prayers. If only now was as simple. 

Using his cane, he finds the confessional and sits on the weathered bench. The panel between himself and the priest moves. Matt pushes his glasses up his nose, building a new barrier between him and the man on the other side. He speaks slow and clear, talking about the sins that follow his family, the ones he hasn't done yet and the ones he won't stop doing.

“Why don't you tell me what you are asking for forgiveness for,” the older man inquires.

Matt stops, his voice calm – resolved, “I'm not asking forgiveness for what I have done. I'm asking forgiveness for what I'm about to do.”

“That's not exactly how this works,” the priest shifts, the fabric of his robes moving on the bench, the cross around his neck thumps against his chest.

“I know,” Matt acknowledges. 

There is a beat of silence then the man sighs, “Will you tell me what you are about to do?”

Matt opens his mouth, the words hanging in the back of his throat. He swallows them back. “Thank you for your time, Father.”

He crosses his chest again and exits the confessional not feeling any lighter than he did when he first came through the heavy wood doors of the church. His stomach twists in guilt over his (lack of) confession. The good Catholic boy his grandmother raised would have told the whole truth in that room, the man that lives with a devil under his skin knows he can't. 

He walks out into the bright sun, it's rays of heat pushing through the material of his suit and turns towards his apartment. He needs to prepare for tonight. He knows what he has to do and where he has to go. The criminals that he has stopped have told him about dealings on the docks. Human and gun trafficking is becoming all too common and he is determined to put an end to that.

_Foggy, Foggy, Foggy_

His phone buzzes in his pocket and he stops to extract the small device from it home and slides his finger across the screen. “Hello.”

“Hey buddy,” his friend's cheery voice immediately settles his anxiety. “What'cha doing?”

“I'm walking back to my apartment,” Matt says, sidestepping a kid on a skateboard by pretending to need the wall for guidance. “What are you doing, besides bugging me that is?”

“Well, I'm actually waiting on you. To come to the bank. To sign the paperwork. So we can get our loan for our new business. Like we discussed two days ago.” Matt curses in his mind. He forgot. He taps his cane against the sidewalk, trying to pinpoint exactly where he was and how long it would take him to walk over to the bank. Foggy laughs softly, “Just get in a cab. Stop over thinking this and stop feeling guilty for forgetting.”

Matt moves toward the curb, raising his hand to flag a vehicle down, “Are you sure you aren't psychic?”

“Dude,” Foggy sounds put upon, but also fond, “I don't need to be with you. You are always feeling guilty about something.”

“Not always,” Matt denies.

“Lies!” Foggy exclaims. “And for that obvious deception you can buy my coffee. I take two sugars-”

“And a gallon of creamer,” Matt smiles. 

The gentle teasing causes his body to relax again. He honestly didn't know how he lived without Foggy in his life. Sometimes when he actually stops to think about it, it scares him how much he has come to relay on his friend to be there. Matt's always been alone, likes being alone – or at least he once did – now he wants to be alone with Foggy. He swallows around the realization. It's dangerous to need someone that much and he still isn't comfortable with it. It gnaws at his insides because he knows that Foggy could leave – will leave – when he finds out about Matt. Everyone always leaves.

Tears spring to his eyes. He blinks them away. No. Foggy will stay because he will never, _never_ find out what he does at night or about the demon in his soul. Foggy will stay because – he needs him to.

“Not a _gallon_ of creamer,” his friend's voice pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts. “Only about a quart or so.” He sighs dramatically, “What can I say, I like sweet things.”

 _So do I,_ Matt thinks. _You're my sweet thing Foggy. Please say you will always stay._

“I know,” Matt says instead. He pulls up to the bank's curb and hands the cash to the cabbie. “I'm here.”

“I know,” Foggy's warm voice slides over him. His friend's arm hooks in his and they walk into the bank. “You ready for this?”

“Yeah,” he nods. Because he is. He's ready for anything with Foggy at his side.

That night as he crawls along the shipping containers, listening to the fear in the young women's screams and the dark satisfaction of the man threatening them, he knows he's ready to do this too. He has to do this because it's right. The crack of bones. The smear of blood. The scent of sweat. The taste of salt in the air. It surrounds him. He crouches down, making his body as small as possible. His heart rate steady, even as his nerves jump. The electric wand crackles and burns the skin of one of the girls and Matt leaps from the metal box. 

His fist connects with skin on the way down. His blood sings. He bends and twists, throwing punches, sweeping legs out from under the hulking men. He moves without thought. Instinct and training taking over. It's easy. He doesn't feel the pain of his own wounds. It's buried under adrenaline. The men around him drops. The heartbeats slow and dwindle until there are only a few left standing. He uses the wand as a bat, swinging violently across the face of one of the men. A satisfying crunch sounds in his ears. A cheek bone. The body drops to the ground. The last man standing among the bodies is him. 

He breathes heavily. The energy seeping out the cuts on his body with the blood. He lifts his head and walks toward the women in the shipping container. “Go to the police. Stay on the streets.” None of them move. The fear in the air is almost choking him. He slams his hand against the metal making the red mass in his head jump. “Go!”

Whimpers escape from their bodies but they all run in the direction of the police station. He pauses, listening to them escape and to the heartbeats around him. He's ready if he needs to fight again. No one on the ground moves but tires in the distance catch his attention. Matt jumps up on some near by crates and onto the roof of the container next to him. He moves quickly, getting as far from the docks as he can before slowing down. 

The muscles in his arms and legs are starting to burn. The bruises on his chest were starting to form and become tender. He'll be feeling this fight for days, but it is worth it. Everything – all the secrets and the pain – it's all worth it. He makes it back to his apartment and hits his phone to give him the time. A quarter after three. Matt pulls the cloth from his face, letting it drop to the floor at this feet. The moisture on his skin is starting to itch. He eases his body into the bathroom, turning on the water until steam fills the small space. The rest of his clothes don't come off as easily. There are some grunts of pain as he twists and bends, but it's all worth it once the warm water eases the tension away from his muscles.

He closes his eyes and leans his head against the cool tile wall. The final teasing touches of adrenaline works through his body and the tiredness starts to ease in. He yawns deeply, swallowing some of the water to his displeasure and pushes his aching form from the stall. Reaching for a towel, he wraps the soft terry cloth around his slim waist and enters his room. He doesn't bother with clothes, too much work and he just doesn't feel like dealing with it, so he pulls the damp towel from his body and falls into his bed.

It's not long before sleep claims him. 

It feels like an even shorter time before Foggy calls him to meet with the Realtor.

@@@~~~@@@ 

Karen Page is beautiful. She's also so far out of his league, he's in the cheap seats. It also doesn't help that her body chemistry practically glows with attraction the minute she sees one Matthew Murdock – well it does after the fear and confusion subside anyway. Part of Foggy is amused by this development, part of him is resigned, and a bigger part of him is worried. He worries about a lot of things, but sweet, innocent girls being attracted to his best friend causes him to be even more concerned.

Matt, for his part, doesn't appear to realize she's interested. In fact he seems distracted. More often than not he disappears or has other things going on. Foggy watches him with growing suspicion. He doesn't like feeling like he can't trust his friend. He fights his instinct because Matt has never lied to him, would never lie to him. He knows this. 

Or at least he used to know this.

Foggy almost feels relieved when he figures out it's a girl. A secret cell phone to communicate with a secret lover. It hurts to know that Matt didn't want to tell him about her, but that's okay because he can handle this type of secret. And it gives him a chance to get to know their new secretary/friend. 

Karen proves to be an interesting person to say the least. She's completely unfazed by his mutation, finding it pretty fascinating actually. Her natural curiosity boils over the most when they are drinking at Josie's.

“Have you ever used your ability in court?”

Foggy sips his beer, weighing his answer, “Yes and no.” He shrugs, “I try not to give the prosecution any reason to throw me off a case because I'm a mutant. It's happened to others. But it's a part of me. No matter how much I try not to use my mutation, it's sometimes impossible to block out everything.”

“Did you know I was innocent?” Karen looks at him through light colored lashes, nervously.

“I knew you were scared and confused.” He pauses, “I trusted that you were innocent. I'm not a mind reader. I just ...sense feelings. Basic really.” Those are little, white half truths, he tries like hell to not feel like shit for saying them to her. 

She nods, appeased, if not completely pleased, “That's fair.”

“Plus you are a beautiful woman,” he grins at her to break the brewing tension. “I always wanted to be a hero to a damsel in distress.”

“And,” she draws out the word, humor dancing in her tone, tipping her tumbler in his direction, “that's sexist.”

He laughs and they let the topic settle for the night. 

Everything starts to turn quickly in their small world not long after a mysterious man in glasses comes into their offices one afternoon. Foggy can feel the slime ooze from that man – no mutation needed. It takes several days and multiple assurances for Foggy to feel good about helping get that killer off. Even Al Capone needed a lawyer to make sure he was treated fairly – he just never thought he would be _that_ guy or that Matt would be okay with it. 

Maybe that's what disturbed him the most. Matt's compliance. 

The check that clears their bank account feels like blood money as well, but he tries to convince himself they didn't just set loose the next madman on Hell's Kitchen's streets. Foggy doesn't know how he feels when Brett tells him later that the man they _just_ set free was dead. If he were being completely honest with himself he would admit, while no life should be snuffed out in such a violent manner, he isn't crying over his ex-client either.

After that it's with great joy, Nelson and Murdock take on the case of Elena Cardenas. It completely renews Foggy's spirit to help someone with such a good heart. He revels in being able to do what he has always dreamed of – helping the ones that need it the most. Elena hugs him, pinches his cheeks, makes him food and laughs (mostly politely) at his jokes. Foggy feels his heart warm around her. The older woman extrudes kindness. And strength. But boy is she one tough cookie! Foggy finds himself eager to help her in other ways. _Need your pipes fixed, no problem, Mrs Cardenas!_

He doesn't regret anything... then the bombing happens. 

Then the world goes to hell again.

The night of the bombings, Foggy realizes several things. 

One- he does not like getting glass propelled through his body. So never again – never. 

Two- Matt needs to give him his damned burner phone number because not hearing from his best friend causes him more pain than the said glass through the gut.

Three- He doesn't like or trust the man in the mask at all. It doesn't feel right. 

Four- Hospitals suck

Five- Not hearing from Matt makes him face some things he hasn't wanted to in a while, one of them being the fact he _is_ in love with his best friend. Really, truly, deeply, scared shitless, in love.

Foggy has always known he's had feelings for him. Always thought maybe he could be in danger of falling in love, but now there isn't even a small doubt in his mind. Matt is the one he really can't live without. Those hours of radio silence, where death was all around him, are the worst in his life. The only thing that keeps him calm is the fact that he can sense his friend's emotions. He reaches out, stretches his mind, and finds him blocks away. Alive. 

It's what helps him rest, while the pain medicine muddles his brain. 

When he wakes up with Matt at his side, Foggy's breath catches. His friend's head is down, his body slumped over and his hands are shaking even as they are folded in prayer. Foggy reaches out and gently touches Matt's shoulder (not allowing himself any more contact than absolutely necessary). Matt's head snaps up, dark hollow bags are under his eyes, but he smiles brightly at Foggy.

“It's not that bad.”

“I'm sorry,” Matt's voice is deep, broken.

“Why,” he pushes up to get more comfortable against the flat pillow, “you didn't bomb the city. It's that madman in a mask. Matt you didn't do anything to feel sorry about.”

His friend's full lips turn down into a frown. The lines in his forehead crease deeply and Foggy can feel even more guilt flood into the air. Which makes Foggy frown. “You really think he did this? Karen seems to like him. He helped her.”

“Matt,” he sighs, “he wears a mask. He might do some good, but that news report wasn't showing a man helping old ladies cross the street. He was beating up cops.”

“It might not be what it seems.”

“Why are you defending him?”

Matt stays quiet for a moment then slowly shrugs, “Doesn't everyone deserve a good defense attorney.”

This time it's him that stays quiet. Because really what can he say? The fading suspicion from so many weeks ago comes back. Matt is hiding something and the only thing he can tell is that he feels guilty about it.

But really when doesn't Matt feel guilty about something?

And that's the thought that settles his stomach a little. This is Matt. The man wouldn't lie to him about something too big. He's too good. And he knows how much Foggy hates lies.

He knows. 

So Foggy isn't worried.

Or at least he tries not to be.

@@@~~~@@@ 

Elena was dead.

He failed her.

Matt feels sick and that sickness feeds his rage. 

The chill from the morgue stays with him as he moves from one criminal to another. The punches never feel like they are effective enough. A sweet woman is dead because he _failed_. The blood that drips from his fists and pools at his feet isn't doing what he needs it too.

The anger only grows.

It fuels him. Drowns out all other sound. Including the concerns of his friends, including Foggy. He just knows his purpose. He hears Stick. The mean bastard that has a singular focus and now so does Matt. He will get the person that took her life and the men behind it.

It's that tunnel vision that leads him down a path he can't turn back from. Nobu is more than he expects. The first cut of the knife into his back reminds him of the first crack of Stick's cane. He's human. And he fucked up. The devil under his skin pushes him to fight even as he feels the blood seep more and more from his body. His head is light, floaty. He works on muscle memory. Punch, retreat, kick, combo of all he learned as a child. Bend, block, avoid what he can, brace for what he can't.

Nobu compliments him on his spirit. He tells him he underestimated him. Matt's used to that. Everyone does. Except Foggy. Foggy has never put expectations on him. He lets Matt be who he is. God, Foggy. He has to make it because he can't leave this world without telling Foggy how he feels about him.

Nobu's blade swings on the chain, whirling through the air toward him. He manages to move the half an inch needed to survive but the sharp metal still slices him again. Matt eases up on his knee, bends his head and _listens_. He strikes out at the right moment, catching the ninja by surprise. What happens from there is a blur of movement.

He doesn't know how he manages to make it out alive, but he thanks every saint and the dear Lord he does. He cradles his arm around his middle, stumbling against buildings as he moves as far away from the loft as possible. The smell of fire follows him, the sounds of sirens surrounds him and the taste of his own blood in his mouth reminds him.

He nearly let himself be beaten. He nearly failed again. Walking into his apartment is a relief, one he can't savor for long. All the blood loss makes his knees buckle and he falls onto the wood floor. The last thing he thinks about before the darkness takes over is how much he needs Foggy.

@@@~~~@@@ 

Foggy is drunk when he forces his way into Matt's apartment. The liquor he ingested isn't enough to erase the image of Elena dead on that slab. Her body, so warm and inviting in life, was so fucking cold. Her cheeks lacked the pinkish hue of laughter, replaced by the blueish tint of nothingness. Foggy has never wanted to kill someone as much as he did when he nodded to let the medical examiner know that yes, that lifeless form was in fact his friend.

For hours he sat in a bar, fighting with himself. He wanted to use every one of his abilities to find the person that hurt her and tear them limb from limb. He wanted to pull every fear from their mind and present it to them in a pretty picture meant to torment them for life. Instead of giving into the darkest parts of himself, he drinks.

And drinks.

And drinks.

And then he gets up and goes to the one person that has been there since the beginning. He goes to Matt. He goes to the man that he trusts and loves.

The place is quiet and dark. It doesn't take a genius to realize he is alone. The living room is awash in neon pinks and deep blues. He stares out the window. It's so bright it hurts his eyes to look, but he does. He welcomes this pain. Pleads with it to drown out the other.

He turns at the sharp sound of the roof access opening. He searches for something to use as a weapon because it couldn't be Matt, he would use his front door. Right? His hand grips one of Matt's canes, raising it up like a bat, readying himself for whatever comes through the door.

The man in the mask falling at his feet isn't what he's expecting, neither is seeing the face under the black cloth.

The pieces start to fit.

“Matt?”

Finding out the man behind the mask is Matt throws him off completely and leaves him cold.

Seeing his friend bleed out on the hardwood floor forces him to put his feelings of betrayal aside.

“Fucking asshole,” he breathes as he settles his mind.

He swallows, leans down and places his hands on Matt's chest. His heart is beating, but barely. Pain is swimming in his veins and he pulls. Foggy pulls as much as he can, all the cuts and bruises turn hot then cold. He can feel smaller wounds healing slowly, some break out on his own skin, mirroring Matt's. He opens every one of his powers and soothes as much of his friend's, or whatever Matt is, agony. He heals what he can, feeling weaker and weaker with each one he does. It's been too long since he's practiced this. Professor X always wanted him to focus on this ability more, but he never did. Too much. It takes too much out of him.

Matt opens his eyes, Foggy looks away from them. He can't look at him right then. 

“We need to get you to a hospital,” his voice is flat even to his own ears.

“No,” Matt croaks. “No hospitals.”

“Matt,” he warns, his body heavy with all he is trying to do to keep Matt alive. He's losing his strength to keep going, eventually he will break if he doesn't stop soon.

“No. Hospitals,” he moves toward his pocket and pulls out a cell phone. The burner phone. “Call. Claire.”

Foggy reaches for the phone, his hand shaking, his stomach rolling and he looks through the caller log for the only number in there, pressing the connect button. A woman answers right away, but he doesn't give her a chance to speak much, interrupting with a short, “Matt's hurt. We're at his apartment.” Then he hangs up.

He moves away from his friend's body and goes into the bathroom. He spends several minutes relieving his stomach of it's contents. Then he waits. He still can't look at Matt. It hurts too much.

@@@~~~@@@ 

Matt wakes up disoriented. His senses are all over the place. He can't focus on anything, but the fact that the pain in his body isn't as bad as he thought it would be. He takes a deep breath and pulls at one of the bandages on his side. The adhesive of the tape pulls at the fine hairs on his bruised skin causing him to wince. The smell of blood and ointment floods his nostrils. It gives him something to focus on and he uses it.

Ignoring the ache in his body he tries to push himself up into a sitting position when a voice calls from the kitchen, “I wouldn't do that if I were you.” Foggy. Oh God, Foggy. His friend moves from the small kitchen into the living room, “But then again maybe I would. What the hell do I know about Matt Murdock?”

“Fog- Foggy,” Matt searches the space. His radar senses finding his friend, feels the other man's heart beat hard in his chest. “Did you patch me up?”

“Nope. McBurner phone did. You told me to call her after you refused to go to the hospital.”

“Claire was here,” he responds dumbly. Nothing makes sense and honestly he's more scared now than he was with Nobu. What was Foggy thinking? 

“Yeah,” Foggy's voice is flat but soft, “she was nice.”

“She is.” He waits questions bouncing around in his head. “How-”

“No,” Foggy's voice is sharp suddenly. “I get to ask the questions and you get to answer them. And you better answer them honestly, Matt.” He nods carefully. His stomach turning over and over again. Foggy sits on the edge of the chair opposite him then gets up again to pace the floor. “Are you really blind?”

That question jars him. He isn't expecting it, but maybe he should have. No he definitely should have. With some deep breaths he starts, “Yes. I am.” And from there he tells Foggy everything. His friend sits and gets up, paces and stops through the whole thing. Questions interrupt him occasionally, but for the most part Foggy stays quiet. “I've been this way since I was nine. No one knows about my senses, except you.”

“And Claire,” Foggy's voice sounds rough like he hasn't used it in weeks, but Matt knows the real reason. The salt from his tears is in the air. “I trusted you. You never trusted me though.”

“That's not true!”

“Really,” Foggy gets up again, his back is to him. “Because you kept this from me. This huge part of yourself was kept from me.” He wheels around. “I was supposed to be your best friend. Your partner. We were supposed to share all the big parts of our lives with each other. But you,” he shakes his head, “You hid this from _me_.” He stops, breathing heavily. “I would have told you everything.”

Matt swallows against the guilt gnawing at his stomach, making him sick, the undercurrent of that guilt though was anger – so he latches onto the (totally unwarranted) anger over knowing that Foggy hasn't told him everything about his own abilities, “I know you've kept things from me too, Foggy.” 

Foggy red form freezes, “What do you mean by that?”

The tone should have been warning enough, but he has always been one to poke when he should back off. Later he will try to convince himself it was lack of blood that makes him this stupid. “I know that you can do more than you let on. All these years, you haven't told me everything. What are _you_ hiding Foggy?”

The man that he has always loved in one way or another, that has always been warm, happy and full of energy, turns stock still in his mind. The heart that he could pick out of a crowd, speeds up and Matt knows this conversation will not end well. He wishes he could take it back. Do it over. Beg for forgiveness and mercy. Tell him that he loves him and he will never lie to him again. 

But he doesn't do that. 

He sits and waits for the explosion.

Foggy's breathing is erratic and he laughs bitterly, “You want to know what I can do? Okay that's fair.” He crosses his arms over his chest and sits back down. “When we first met I told you I couldn't hurt you with my mutation. I'm just an empath, but I lied.” His voice drips more and more ice. “I can mess with your emotions. I can make you so depressed you kill yourself or go so crazy you can't find yourself again. I can make you feel more pain than you ever have before. I can force you to _feel_ anything.” He swallows, hate bleeding into his tone now – but it isn't directed at Matt, it's self-hatred. Matt recognizes that one well. “I can heal and I can hurt. I kept you alive until your friend showed up, fuck! I'm still helping you by easing some of the fucking agony you should be going through.” Tears fill his eyes, his and Foggy's. “Do you know how hard it is sometimes to be me? I fight with myself everyday. I bottle up so much because I _can't_...” He rubs a hand down his face and slumps in the chair. “I wish I was just an empath. I'm not. So maybe you're right. Maybe neither of us really knew the other.”

“Foggy,” Matt shift, his heart suddenly hurting so much more than his body ever could. “That's not true. We know each other. I just need... the city needs me in that mask.”

“Maybe.” Pause, voice cracking. “But I don't.”

“What- what's that mean?”

“The man in the mask is a vigilante. He works outside the law, Matt, _you_ work outside the law. Did you even think about how that could effect Karen or me? Fuck Matt, you really think they would believe I didn't know you were the Devil of Hell's Kitchen?! I have to work so hard to get them to even listen to me about anything because of who and what I am. Did you ever stop to consider that?”

“I can't stop.”

Another pause. “You don't want to stop.”

Only truth. “No.”

“I could make you,” Foggy says softly. “I could make you stop. I could make you love me and Karen and yourself so much you stop.”

“You aren't going to though.”

“No.” Only truth. “No, I'm not.” The other man bends his head down then shakes it, “Was anything ever real between us?”

Six words cut him deeper than any knife or sword ever could, makes him bleed more than any weapon. Matt can't swallow the tears fast enough.

“You know it was. It is.” 

“Do I?”

“Foggy you're my best friend,” he shifts harder against the couch. He can feel it. This is it. The end. “I love-”

“No!” Foggy shakes his head hard. “Fuck you. No! You don't get to say that now.”

“I have to. I need you Foggy.”

Another laugh, watered down but still bitter, “Not as much as you need to be a hero.” He walks toward the door swiftly, “I have to go.”

“Please Foggy.”

No response except the quickening of footsteps, the pounding of two hearts.

“Foggy. Fog-” he can't breathe. His chest hurts too much. His lung won't expand. 

The door closes.

“Foggy.”

No answer.

He's alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay...um... I hope you liked it. This isn't the end of the Empath!Foggy arc, just the end of this chapter. Please forgive me. Thank you to all that kudos, bookmarked and commented on my last story. It means so much to me. <3


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